The Birth of Hercules

The crackling fire shattered the silence of the night. The wind rustled the treetops, casting restless shadows across the earth. In the heart of the clearing, a makeshift bonfire bathed two weary travelers in flickering light.

Hercules leaned against the trunk of a tree, his massive frame covered in cuts and bruises. Blood still trickled from his wounds, staining his tattered exomis. The garment, designed for freedom of movement, had been shredded along one side where the lion's claws had torn through it. His single leather shoulder guard—once a warrior's badge of resilience—now hung uselessly, a mere remnant of the brutal battle he had endured. His bracers were scuffed, his sandals coated in soot and ash from the scorched earth.

Across the fire, Iolaus watched him with open concern.

"You shouldn't be so reckless," he finally said. "You could get an infection. I have linen bandages—"

Hercules didn't look away from the flames.

"I've had worse. By morning, they'll heal."

"That so?"

His nephew's tone was dry, unconvinced. Hercules turned his head with an irritated scowl.

"Why in Hades did you interfere?"

Iolaus hesitated before answering.

"Because I couldn't just stand there. I kept hearing the ground shake and blows landing from outside—I had no idea what was happening."

"I was about to win."

Iolaus let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. He gestured toward the open wounds on his uncle's body.

"Right. That was obvious. You had the lion right where you wanted him."

Hercules growled, looking away.

"It's not the first lion I've fought."

"Oh?"

"I killed the Lion of Cithaeron when I was younger. It was the same."

Iolaus narrowed his eyes.

"You really think this was the same?"

He didn't argue further. There was no point. His uncle saw every battle as a test of willpower, something to be crushed beneath his strength. But this time was different.

Iolaus inhaled deeply, searching for the right words. If he wanted to help, he had to tread carefully.

"Uncle—" he started.

"Sleep, Iolaus."

The finality in his voice ended the conversation.

Iolaus pressed his lips together in frustration. He glanced at the fire, then at Hercules. His uncle had already shut his eyes. His chest rose and fell with heavy, deliberate breaths—but not the breaths of someone at peace.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Iolaus lay back against the earth and forced his eyes shut.

Hercules, however, did not sleep.

The firelight flickered against his closed eyelids, and his mind began to drag him into the past.

To the Temple of Delphi. To the Pythia. To the judgment of the gods.

The wind stirred the dust along the rocky path, clinging to the travelers' clothes. Alcides walked with heavy steps, his shoulders slumped, his gaze hollow. Beside him, his brother Iphicles struggled to keep pace, watching him with concern.

Before them, the Temple of Delphi rose from a fissure in the earth, built on a surface where no structure should have stood. Marble columns, perfectly aligned, upheld a ceiling of divine craftsmanship. At the entrance, a statue of Apollo gleamed as if cast from the very light of the sun. A low murmur filled the air—pilgrims and kings from distant lands, all gathered in hopes of receiving the Oracle's prophecy.

"The priestess must have the answer," Iphicles murmured.

Alcides did not respond. He had no words. No thoughts.

Megara was dead. His children were dead. Their blood still stained his hands.

The temple had yet to open its doors, but a crowd already swelled before the entrance. Nobles in flowing robes and golden diadems quarreled over who would be granted an audience first.

No one paid Alcides any mind. Just another pilgrim, head bowed, lost in his own sins.

But he did not stop. Ignoring the line, he walked forward.

"Hey! Wait your turn!" A broad-shouldered man in a purple cloak stepped forward, his voice thick with authority. A minor king—a Thessalian noble. He moved to block Alcides, but the moment their eyes met, his expression faltered.

The fire in Alcides' gaze hollowed the man from within. The color drained from his face.

"It's… the son of Zeus. The great hero, Alcides…"

Murmurs spread like wildfire. Alcides ignored them and kept walking.

The temple guards did not attempt to stop him. They could not. The half-brother of Apollo could not be denied entry to his sacred house. But when Iphicles tried to follow, a sentinel barred his way with a spear.

"He may enter. You may not."

Iphicles swallowed hard, then nodded in resignation.

Alcides did not look back.

The temple's interior was bathed in dim light, torches flickering against ancient stone. He moved forward without hesitation, toward the chambers of the Oracle.

When he pushed the door open, a wave of incense met him.

Before him, a woman emerged from a sacred bath, droplets of water trailing down her sun-kissed skin. Her long black hair clung to her back, heavy and damp.

She gasped softly and reached for a delicate cloth, draping it across herself. Her dark eyes never left his, unreadable yet knowing.

"If a man enters this chamber unbidden, he is usually put to death to protect the Oracle's sanctity," she said calmly. "But somehow, I doubt that applies to you, son of Zeus."

He said nothing.

She sighed, wrapping herself in a flowing white toga before gesturing for him to follow.

"Tell me—what do you seek here?"

For the first time in days, Alcides raised his head. And he spoke.

"I killed my family."

The Oracle's expression did not waver, but for the briefest moment, her breath caught.

"Very well," she said. "Come with me."

She led him into the adyton, the temple's holiest chamber. A stone altar stood at its heart, encircled by pillars engraved with hymns to Apollo. A priest led a goat to the altar and, with a swift, practiced motion, slit its throat. Blood poured over the sacred rock as a servant doused the lifeless body in cold water.

A heavy silence fell over the chamber.

The Oracle watched the animal's final moments. If the creature convulsed before death, the gods had accepted the offering.

The goat shuddered. Its glassy eyes dimmed.

"Apollo has granted you an audience," the Oracle whispered.

Servants offered Alcides a cup of sacred wine and a plate of fruit. He drank without thought.

The Oracle closed her eyes. Her body trembled, then collapsed to her knees. Her pupils dilated until her irises turned a luminous, unnatural white.

The world around them disappeared.

Darkness.

Nothing but Alcides and the Oracle, suspended in the void.

She arched as if her body was too fragile to contain the weight of divinity. A tremor passed through her lips before she spoke—not in a single voice, but in many. A chorus of past, present, and future.

"The sun does not cleanse the shadow of those who stain their flesh with the blood of their kin. There is no redemption without burden. No rest without debt."

Alcides did not breathe.

"Your lineage is of kings, yet your throne is built of bones. You are no prince. No ruler. You are an executioner. Your steps echo in the path of fallen titans, and wherever you walk, the earth shall quake."

The Oracle's white eyes turned upward, as if gazing beyond time itself.

"Ten are the labors. Twelve are the years of servitude you will bear upon your shoulders. To the throne that was stolen, and only when the tally is paid shall guilt dissolve like mist at dawn."

Silence descended like a hammer.

Alcides did not fully understand, but the weight of the prophecy settled deep within him. Ten trials. Twelve years. Servitude and… Eurystheus.

The priests of Apollo approached to decipher the message, their voices solemn.

"To atone for your sins, Alcides, you must serve as a slave to your cousin, Eurystheus. He will dictate the trials that will cleanse your soul."

It was his only path forward.

He rose to his feet and turned to the Oracle.

Still dazed, she gave him the faintest smile.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she murmured, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. "I must dress. I cannot receive those arrogant nobles in this state."

Alcides inclined his head and left.

Iphicles waited outside.

"Well?" he asked.

Alcides gazed at the horizon. Mycenae awaited.

"We go to Eurystheus."

Mycenae loomed before them, an impenetrable fortress of stone and shadows. Towering walls, crowned with battlements, cast long silhouettes over the dirt road. Alcides walked with a steady stride, though his mind was far from the city's grandeur.

Beside him, Iphicles kept pace, his eyes scanning their surroundings. They had barely crossed the gates when the murmurs began.

"It's him…""The monster of Thebes…""They say he murdered his own children with his bare hands…"

The whispers slithered through the crowd like venomous serpents, low but piercing. Alcides ignored them, his gaze fixed ahead, unwavering.

At the top of the hill, Eurystheus' palace awaited.

They stepped into the throne room, where the king sat with an expression of feigned warmth. He spread his arms in an exaggerated gesture.

"My dear cousin!" he exclaimed, his tone dripping with false enthusiasm. "You've traveled far to see me."

"Apparently, we have unfinished business…" Alcides began, but Eurystheus raised a hand, cutting him off.

"No need to explain," the king said, a sly smile playing on his lips. "I already know everything."

Alcides frowned.

"How…?"

A shiver ran down his spine.

From behind the throne, stepping out of the shadows like a predator, came Hera.

She wore a flowing Greek chiton that clung to her form, the golden filigree tracing elegant patterns along the deep neckline. Bracelets and earrings shimmered under the torchlight, and atop her head rested a delicate diadem shaped like a peacock—her sacred symbol.

She didn't need to speak. The air itself thickened in her presence.

Alcides felt his blood boil. His muscles tensed like a wolf preparing to strike. He stepped forward, but with a mere snap of Eurystheus' fingers, the guards raised their spears, their tips pressing against his chest.

"From now on, Alcides," Eurystheus declared with a smirk, "you will not take a single step without my permission. Not if you truly seek redemption."

Hera's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Don't worry," she purred, her voice sweetly venomous. "I personally ensured that your wife and children had… proper passage through the Underworld."

Alcides' stomach twisted.

What did she mean by that?

Had his family been cast into Tartarus?

Rage roared inside him, a storm pounding against his ribcage, demanding release. But he couldn't act. Not here. Not now.

Eurystheus, savoring the tension, gave a theatrical sigh.

"Now, let's get to the important part. You will undergo ten trials—each more impossible than the last. Feats beyond any mortal… perhaps even beyond a god."

Hera tilted her head, feigning humility.

"Your first trial must be worthy of my husband's bastard," she said, her words laced with poison.

Eurystheus nodded.

"In the fields of Nemea, there is a beast that devours all in its path. They say its golden hide is impervious to arrows. Your task is to slay it."

Silence hung in the air.

Eurystheus leaned forward, his fingers intertwined, his grin widening.

"Do you accept, cousin?"

Alcides lifted his head. His eyes burned like embers.

"I will."

Eurystheus clapped his hands lightly, as if indulging a child's game.

"Ah, one more thing…"

He leaned back into his throne, his smirk deepening.

"Your name, Alcides, is stained with the blood of innocents—your own children. A servant of mine and the gods cannot carry such a disgraceful title."

Alcides clenched his fists.

"What are you saying?"

Eurystheus relished the moment before delivering his final blow.

"Your name will change. You are no longer worthy of being called a son of Zeus. From this day forward, you shall be known as 'Hercules.'"

The weight of the name crashed down on him like a mountain.

"The glory of Hera?!" He seethed, barely restraining himself. "You son of a—"

Eurystheus simply raised a hand.

"Remember, cousin, your redemption depends on me."

Alcides—no, Hercules—gritted his teeth so hard he nearly cracked them. But he turned away all the same.

'The glory of Hera.'

It was an insult. A leash wrapped tightly around his neck. A reminder that the woman who had destroyed his life was now the one directing his so-called redemption.

Hera smiled. Her figure dissolved into golden light, her laughter lingering in the air like a curse.

Heracles clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked.

Without another word, he strode out of the throne room.

Iphicles followed closely behind. But before crossing the threshold, he turned to Eurystheus.

"What are you really after?"

Eurystheus leaned back with a satisfied smirk.

"Nothing in particular…" he mused, his voice thick with amusement. "I just want to see how far a god's bastard can fall."

A chill ran down Iphicles' spine as he stepped out of the hall.

The dawn painted the sky in muted hues as Iphicles and Iolaus arrived at the lake. The water was pristine, reflecting the world with an ironic calm, as if unaware of the misfortune looming over them.

Iphicles kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, his mind trapped in the puzzle of the lion. He had searched for weaknesses, any useful knowledge—but nothing seemed promising.

"They say it's invulnerable," he muttered in frustration.

Beside him, Iolaus held the reins of two horses, his eyes never leaving the water.

"Then how can he kill it?"

Iphicles sighed.

"I don't know."

Silence settled between them—until the water stirred.

From the depths of the lake, Hercules emerged.

Naked, battle-worn, his form rose against the morning light, droplets cascading over his scarred muscles. But it wasn't his body that commanded attention.

It was his eyes.

No doubt. No fear. No rage.

Only cold, exhausted determination.

As he reached the shore, Iphicles tried to smile.

"You look… renewed."

Hercules didn't answer.

A servant of Eurystheus stood waiting at the edge of the water, holding a glowing iron brand.

"The king has ordered you to be marked," the man said indifferently. "Would you like something to bite down on?"

"No."

Hercules extended his arm without hesitation.

The red-hot iron seared into his bare shoulder.

A sickening hiss filled the air.

The stench of burnt flesh followed.

But no scream came. No reaction.

Only a whisper, barely audible.

"The son of Zeus… branded like an animal."

The servant stepped back, closing a small parchment ledger.

"From this moment, you are Hercules. Servant of the gods and his majesty, King Eurystheus."

Iphicles looked away. Iolaus clenched his fists, barely holding back his fury.

Hercules draped a toga over his shoulder, leaving half of his torso exposed, fastening it with his leather pauldron. He strapped on his bracers and armored sandals with unhurried precision.

Then, he turned to his brother.

"Why is he here?"

Iphicles lowered his gaze.

"I cannot follow you, brother. My body is too frail for such a journey. But my son… he will have your back."

Iolaus straightened, his curly hair catching the wind, his eyes burning with resolve.

Hercules studied him for a moment, then gave a single nod.

Without another word, he mounted his horse.

And together, they rode toward Nemea.

Then he woke.

Darkness surrounded him.

The dying embers of the campfire crackled faintly, their light flickering weakly over charred wood.

Hercules opened his eyes slowly.

The pain was still there, burning through his body, but his mind was clear.

For the first time, there was no doubt.

He sat up, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. Iolaus slept beside him, breathing steadily, unaware of his uncle's awakening.

Hercules exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

And then, the lion's image returned.

Its fury. Its brutality. Its impenetrable golden hide.

But something else.

The way the beast roared when his fist struck it.

Not when he used his sword. Not when he fired his arrows.

When he hit it with his bare hands.

A faint smile ghosted across his lips.

He knew what he had to do.

End of chapter 3.